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Poem	My father is dead. I who am look at him who is not, as once he went looking for me in the woman who was. There are pictures of the two of them, no need of a third, hand in hand, hearts willing to be one but not three. What does it mean life? I am here I am there. Look! Suddenly the young tool in their hands for hurting one another. And the camera says: Smile; there is no wound time gives that is not bandaged by time. And so they do the three of them at me who weep.
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